


All Feather, No Flock

by TheCokeworthSnapes



Series: The Shrike and The Thorn [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hatemates, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Pre-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 15:08:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18263837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCokeworthSnapes/pseuds/TheCokeworthSnapes
Summary: Severus is catching hell at an Order meeting when Sirius, three sheets to the wind, decides he wants to chime in.





	All Feather, No Flock

Humid August air seeped into the shadowed halls of Number Twelve. The Order headquarters fought a spirited war of a damned and drafty cloister at odds with the summer heat. In the parlor, the members suffocated in the warmth of many bodies crammed in close quarters.

A bead of sweat bothered the small hairs of his neck. Severus spoke over the groaning of adults failing to cope. The Weasley parents and their eldest sons spread along the walls and couches. A flagging Molly Weasley played hostess, casting cooling charms that quickly petered out and died.

It was no use. The evening suffered under the fog of shared breath.

“Besides these few rumors of action, His forces are lying low. The Death Eaters await further instructions. I have nothing else to report, Headmaster,” Severus summarized.

He itched to swipe dry the sweat from his back, regretting his decision to forgo lighter robes. Outwardly, he surveyed the furrowed brows all around him.

 _Scraps again today,_ he agreed privately.

Their meeting was winding down after Severus’s report, which landed on busied, worrying ears. His news once again proved spartan, and not a one among them was comforted by You-Know-Who’s extended silence. Moody, who never quite stopped glaring when Severus spoke, as a nervous tic had resorted to snorting and tossing his head like a startled horse.

Spittle flew from his mouth as the old Auror berated the spy.

“You’re hiding something, low-bellied scum. Keeping your master’s secrets!”

 _Ah, yes, slander, as keeping with tradition,_ Severus thought, back pin straight, heels planted in the unswept carpet. Every once in a while Mad-Eye perked up and flung curses, and he preferred to stand ready.

_It wouldn’t be a proper meeting sans the defamation of my character._

He affected boredom, making a show of staring into the void. Severus was, of course—frightfully bored, and irritated—and making salient the former would give Moody another ulcer. The man rarely ate and shat sparingly, such grew the strength of Snape’s disregard.

This and needling Black had become these meetings’ only highlights.

“Alastor, please. It is simply the times as they are right now,” quelled Albus. “When more happens, we will know.”

The Headmaster sat apart from both the collective and his Potions master, having conjured an overstuffed armchair for himself. He must have grown used to the dull course of their reports. With so little change over the preceding months, the man had gotten comfortable, as opposed to his usual hover and vanish.

Severus looked down on him sourly, and was twinkled at.

“I have complete faith in Severus’s reports. Should Voldemort move a millimeter, I’m sure we can be there to meet him.”

“And when will that be, exactly?,” chimed in Shacklebolt in a low voice. Severus locked his gaze on a far high corner, seething. “I’m not doubting Snape’s loyalty, but his access...are we sure that _they_ still trust him?”

“A fair question, of course, Kingsley. I assure you all of the security of Severus’s position. As far as there is any honor among the enemy, he has not been betrayed.”

This inspired a new wave of eyeballing and anxious whispers. Moody’s spinning blue eye trained on the younger man. Severus scowled at it, annoyed by its disgusting focus, and annoyed once over for flinching. He could tell from Diggle’s nervous throat clearing that his expression was something foul.

“You’ve lost your mind like they’ve said, Dumbledore, if _this_ is where you store our trust!”

The senior Auror went on, speaking to Albus as he glowered at Severus. “Look at him, the bloody Death Eater! Lying through his crooked teeth!”

“Here, here!,” came a slurry bark from the gallery. “Speak the truth!”

“Sirius, you’ve had enough,” cautioned the werewolf to his mangy charge.

As Severus passed an eye over the lot of them, the old crowd tensed and resettled around a hushed scuffle in the back. There sounded a telltale clinking of glasses as a bottleneck met with a rim. A glugging and the smoke of firewhiskey, only for Black to rise out of the crowd.

Severus bore down on his hands held behind his back, squeezing one in the other, until he felt the bones creak.

“Yes, Black, listen to mother,” the Slytherin sneered, lip curling disdainfully. “Keep to your bottles while the competent adults speak.”

“Funny you say that, Snivellus! Leave off, Moony, I’ve got it.”

Severus took pause. Usually his dig was enough to have the hated man frothing. They’d have it out and rip apart, each hefting a chunk of the other’s self-esteem, gouged from his core as nature demanded. Severus could shred the indignities with Black’s swollen ego and at least be happy to have kicked down.

But tonight was one of few where liquor drenched Black’s wretched, violent mind. It doused his stunted fuse. Thus sodden with purpose, the unshaven lout pushed to the front of the group. Waving off the warning looks from the higher-minded present—well, them and Lupin—he butted chummily against Bill Weasley as he approached the center stage.

“Sirius, leave it!”

“C’mon, mate, you’re in your cups!”

“Mother, hush! And Tonks, my dearest, my mohawked heart, do console Remus. He’s frightened.”

Severus caught the muttered, “We’re too old for this shite,” that floated over from by the dining room. If he had heard Lupin griping, then so had the rest of the room. All except Black shifted uncomfortably, sharing queasy looks. The idiot, of course, only smiled in the dark wizard’s face, as if Severus had gifted him some precious gem.

The drunk pointed with a finger perched over a glass of ice and amber. His smile widened, baring canines yellowed from twelve years of neglect.

“Let me say, once again, because I’m not sure you heard me,” Black drawled. “Now, I’d never accuse your musty corpse of having a sense of humor, but—”

“You reek,” he interrupted, wrinkling his nose. There remained a couple yards between them, but the stink of alcohol suffused the too-thick air.

The son of a bitch chuckled, grinning ear to ear.

“I don’t smell of roses, no. I’m fucking pickled! ‘Cause I’m a drunk, you see.”

As if to mark his point, he knocked back the rest of his drink, bloodshot eyes watering.

“Ran outta wine just this morning, as a matter of full disclosure. Since the topic of the evening is honesty, I’ll lead. Have been in the firewhiskey since noon, so I could probably clear a Quidditch pitch!”

It was off-putting, how little the man seemed to care. Black didn’t do self-deprecating, being so quintessentially vain. Whatever sliver of the man that cared less about his charms, if one could prove it to exist, had funneled into a hunger for reputation.

He had a darling godson now, and regrettably, Albus’s favor as well as that of his pet wolf. The man was now as obsessed with airs as any Malfoy, needing to be carefree yet responsible. All this despite the well-known facts of his recklessness and deeply addled mind.

 _Gods,_ the parlor was stifling. Severus sweat through his black clothes, but Salazar help him if he so much as blinked. It didn’t matter if his enemy was possessed in a manic spirit. To budge now would read as weakness.

Again, he feigned disinterest. He canted his head, enough to shift his hair, praying for a breeze under his collar.

“As long as you’re aw—.”

“Buuut,” trilled Black, empty glass held aloft. “See, I’ve realized, Snivelly, that it’s been three weeks since you’ve brought us any good news. While I drowned myself in my ghosts and miseries, concerned for our Harry—not your Harry, obviously, you ugly, loveless worm, but ours,” he gestured to those gathered, “I thought, ‘Merlin, why are we so in the dark?’

“Me, well, sure! I never know a bloody thing, too busy with my woes, too shaky to share anything with, but Albus? But _you?_ You’ve always stuck your massive beak where no one needed it, but now nothing? Moody, the paranoid fuck, is absolutely, bell-ringing right!

“Either you’re either lying, or you’re useless, worse than me! Because I’d rather be a drunk than an impotent fucking spy.”

Over the course of his diatribe, Black crept closer across the carpet. He didn’t stumble or sway, carried along by what was likely his clearest line of thought in over a decade: that Severus might be useless. The two men stood a hands width apart. Severus coiled, embarrassed, furious, baking in his own skin. Black leered down at him, bleary grey eyes shining with a sick, childish glee.

“So, what’s it then, Snivellus? Can’t get it up? Whoa, heh, hey! Go ahead! Do something!”

Severus burned, his wand pressed into the hollow of Black’s throat. Black bent down and perched his chin on the tip of it, offering his best angles.

“Do it!,” the man goaded. “Prove that you’re evil so we can be done with you.”

“I suggest you stop talking,” Severus hissed, digging the wand into his palate. “Before a more evolved being is forced to scrub you from the floorboards. The house elf, perhaps?”

He found that dull barb as he sifted his scattered thoughts. His arm shivered with the desire to maim. Severus threw out the insult almost desperately, lest he rid his world of Sirius Black forever and forgot himself in an epiphany of true joy.

“Severus.”

The spy bristled at the headmaster’s patient tone. He bit his cheek—hard—clipping the flesh and drawing blood. Albus said nothing to Black, as always, and Severus failed to figure why, after twenty years he could expect any different.

He made eye contact, lashing black to blue, and thought with crystal clarity:

_I’d rather be rendered useless than scolded like some ill-mannered child._

He looked away quickly to avoid a pinning gaze. He wasn’t an insect to be examined as it struggled against the board, his feelings spread out around him. Severus whipped his wand from Black’s stubbled neck, wishing vividly to have slashed it, tasting copper, nearly smelling the red, hungry to watch the horrid dog flail.

“I said ‘get it up’? Eurgh! That’s nasty.”

The force with which he thought, “I hate you,” could have collapsed stars. The parlor was encased in silence.

Diggle was the first to make his excuses, while Severus measured Black eye-to-eye. More people flaked off after him, having to navigate the two men, averting eyes or staring openly. Molly Weasley, fanning herself, corralled her offspring out the Floo, shushing them as they gossiped. Then she begged off to bed.

Even she seemed too shaken to peck at Black just then. And she could never claim such liberties with Severus’s person, so made her business upstairs. Arthur puttered after her.

Neither did Moody or that fool Tonks intervene while the animosity thrummed between Severus and him like a plucked piano string. The Aurors all wished the room various evenings and departed with a measure less haste.

Albus stayed seated as the parlor drained of people, the air finally cooling with the absent bodies. He lingered until Severus stepped away from Black, who bade the headmaster good night.

“Professor,” Albus prompted. Aha, now he appealed to Severus’s credits. “Will you be joining me in returning to Hogwarts? I believe you have research to tend to.”

Severus only glared at him, arrested by what he definitely shouldn’t say.

The older wizard stroked his beard thoughtfully and offered a resigned sigh. “Very well. I suppose I cannot force you. I would suggest, however, Severus, that we allow cooler heads to prevail. I will wait until you’re ready to leave.”

Practically vibrating with an adolescent rage, Severus spun on his heel and stormed into the dining room.

“I don’t think I’m done, actually, Snape.”

“I don’t care what you are or aren’t, you odious, flea-bitten bastard. If I could set the Dementors on you again and watch them suck the soul from your husk—”

“Not for lack of trying. Get out of my house, snake! And if I say come back when you’re useful, I’m sure I’d never see you—PUT THAT DOWN.”

The Potions master startled the wolf attempting to meld with the wallpaper by the china cabinet. Severus beelined for a tray boasting a decanter of spirits and a second filled glass. Black sauntered after him, flying into a lunge when he saw Severus’s hands grip the tray handle.

“Gentlemen—!”

“Snape, what—!”

Severus flipped the tray, hurling the firewhiskey to the ground. The cut crystal decanter shattered, sparkling pieces skittering across the floor. He took the other glass and threw it at the wall, where it smashed spectacularly, glass exploding over the room.

Black’s superpower now reduced to shards, Severus turned back, panting, braced for the roar.

This would be when Black would lose his mind. The man would succumb to an episode of pureblood madness. He would be the feral one again. They would all be reminded of their place in the hierarchy, Severus the blighted left hand, the confidante, the shadow behind the throne—and Black, the court jester. Only then could Severus even consider calling a draw.

While thinking this, it took him several seconds to realize Black, rather than yelling, was laughing.

“Fine, break it! Break it all, damn it, I’ve got more!”

The dog fumbled for a wand, and finding Lupin’s proceeded to conjure bottle after dusty bottle of aged liquor. They were crystal holders with gold stamped and sealed stoppers, some with preserved fruit, at least one with a mummified thumb.

“Smash all you want, you miserable prick! I’ll never run out!

“That’s what’s different between me and you, Snape. You pick at other people because you’re a—you’re a penniless fucking nothing. You’ve got no family, and no friends, nobody wants you! All you’ve got is some washed out grey underwear and a load of bloody secrets that it’s your job not to keep!

“I’m the, the, uh—the loser? You think anyone here is the loser? Slimy fucking pissant, you’re not better than me! You’ve got no bloody prospects, Snivellus! An untouchable!”

The wolf fled the dining room, glass crunching underfoot, face a rigid mask. Lupin walked carefully but swiftly through the parlor to the front hall. He took down his cloak from the coat tree with curt, contained motions. Then the front door squeaked opened and shut, latch catching with a considerate click, the beast now lost to London.

Albus addressed Black over his half-moon spectacles replete with wizened disappointment. Sighing, the old wizard shook his head. “Sirius, I expected better than this.”

 _Victory,_ Severus thought, driving thirst at last quenched.

He swiped flyaway strands of hair from his face to better see Black’s dressing down. He even tamped down on his knee-jerk, “I can’t imagine why,” just to savor the moment.

“Although you and Severus struggle with civility, I hoped you would consider how your words and actions affect your friends. Now you’ve injured Remus in your outburst. I hope you will think on this while you come more into your senses.”

Black, ever the child, only shrugged dejectedly and scowled at the Potions master.

Severus preened, vindicated. “I think I will accompany you to Hogwarts, Headmaster.”

“As it stands, Severus, I think it best to right the mess you’ve made before making further use of the evening. I shouldn’t think a grown man needs telling when to clean after himself, do you?”

Severus recoiled. “What?!”

But that was all that was said. The headmaster wished farewell and followed Lupin’s example, leaving Severus and Black alone. The latter sunk into a chair, groaning and clutching his head. The former scoffed at the pathetic sight and also turned to leave.

“You ruin everything,” whispered Black, unwashed face held in his tattooed hands. “Just you being around, it buggers everything. Why won’t you just disappear?”

Severus rolled his eyes, unbothered. He spelled spilled whiskey from his shoes and noticed gratefully that the sweat on his back had dried. “Spare me your self-talk, animal. Nobody cares what you think.”

“Disgusting. Just knowing you’re around is,” Black shuddered. He continued muttering to himself, succumbing to the obvious pull of sleep. “Can’t stand it. Dunno what Moony is on about, I’d _never_ fuck you.”

“Y—.”

 _He thinks..._ Something in the combination of words circumvented the filter on Severus’s speech, one that made his lesser thoughts a mystery.

The surly wizard usually cycled down to anger, scorn, disgust, irritation, and at best, fascination, or disinterest, with a healthy nod of sadism, if suddenly made to react. This automatic function of expression was largely sub-conscious. The man never so much deciding to feel these things as much as only knowing these things to feel. Somewhere clogging the filter came embarrassment—which became anger—or empathy—which became disgust and scorn, and then fear to keep him alive when his mouth might have otherwise seen him butchered.

All to say that the outrageous equation, “Lupin says—Black—Severus—sex?,” bypassed the major centers of his brain to his deepest, truest response.

Severus stopped mid-turn, swung slowly back, and seeing Black slumped over, positively green, he realized he’d said that in all seriousness. And that was all for it.

“A-are you?! S-s-simple?!”

Severus threw his head back and laughed like he'd never done before. Stomach cramping, tear rolling, face flushing laughter. He roared and howled till his lungs were sore. He wrapped his arms around himself, sides stitching, wheezing for air.

When his voice twisted up into a keening squeal, he banged his fists on the dining table, toppling the empty candle holders. He hadn’t laughed this hard when jinxed, when hexed, or even when genuinely amused. Severus’s lip twitched at best, or he’d chuckle spitefully if it fit his mood. However, this was all-consuming, like Dark magic but lightening, like Crucio but grand.

It was a parting in omnipresent clouds, a reprieve from a storm. For a few glittering minutes, the man of over thirty years believed in the gift of life apart from the agony of existence.

Because every horrible, torturous, lonesome moment had to happen to place Sirius Black next to Severus Snape, alone at that table, on that day, to imply that Severus never fucking him was in some unfathomable way a loss.

“I would never _touch_ you, you harebrained, narcissistic, psychopathic, self-serving, gloryhounding, bird-fucking, fugitive lunatic! I—ahahahaaHAH—I, oh, I can’t breathe! You go to hell! I would nev—aaahhhhaHAHA!”

Severus stumbled to the front hall, ignoring the broken bottles and the wrongfooted Black. He pressed his hands flat against his stomach, gasping, face split by a grin so wide his cheeks ached. Black grumbled at his back, dragged down by drink.

“I don’t, I don’t fuck birds.”

Severus, still giddy from the shock of joy, conjured a handful of feathers. He tossed them up in the air like confetti. He spread his arms out under them, collecting them on his robes. He then made little wings with his hands and flapped them, pretended to fly out the door.

So fully out of character, he cast a pitying look over his shoulder and grinned, “Thank you for that, mutt. I truly needed it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine if the person you hated most in the world thought you wanted to fuck them? Has there ever been a funnier revenge?


End file.
